


The Simplest Assignment

by Macdicilla



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hope you like that trope, I have edited it at last, M/M, Other demons - Freeform, This has been in my drafts since November 2015
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:53:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/pseuds/Macdicilla
Summary: ‘It's going to be all right, dear.’ Aziraphale said soothingly. ‘I think we can figure this one out. Let's see. Your task is to seduce an angel, right?’Crowley nodded glumly.‘And it can be any angel, right?’‘Yes. Any angel. They didn't specify anything beyond “an angel”.’‘Well,’ said Aziraphale gently, trying to guide him to an easy solution ‘has it occurred to you that it could be me?’‘Yes, of course it has, a couple times!’ Crowley said, and instantly regretted the sound of it.





	The Simplest Assignment

Crowley had trouble with dreams. Part of the time, the trouble was that they were nightmares. Most of the time, the trouble was that his subconscious did not seem to want to let him live. Nightmares fell into this category, but so did pleasant dreams. There were dreams about Aziraphale…

Nothing lurid, mind you. Having an active sex life was, apparently, something his subconscious found beyond the reasonable suspension of disbelief. No, his dreams were of a less explicit but far less subtle sort. There was one where he would walk to the kitchen, and Aziraphale would be there, pouring water into the kettle, and Crowley would hazily wonder what he was doing there. Then, Aziraphale would give him a puzzled smile and tell him matter-of-factly that he had always lived with him, didn't he know? And then Crowley, elated, would embrace him, and the smell and sensation of Aziraphale's soft curls on his face would feel so real.  
   
There was this other one where they were in the car, driving, never going anywhere in particular. Crowley would have one hand on the wheel and the other hand in Aziraphale's hand.  
   
In another, they were in the Garden, lazing about on the verge of sleep, and Crowley would rest his serpent head on Aziraphale's soft bare belly while Aziraphale stroked his back, gazing fondly at him.  
   
That was the sort of thing he dreamt about. It had long ago become obvious to him that he had a situation on his hands. The situation was this:  
   
Crowley enjoyed these dreams while he was in them but wished he could forget them upon waking. The cold knowledge that they were– and would only be– fictions put extra weight on his bones. And the energy spent repressing them could really be spent on something more practical.  
   
But he was used to the routine, so that made it better. He'd get up in the morning, wash his face, button his shirt, and tell himself in the mirror not to dwell on dreams. He was a practical demon, and he valued Aziraphale's friendship, and it was impractical to let one's feelings loose on a perfectly fine relationship and to make uninterested parties uncomfortable.  
   
He whistled and put on his light spring coat and that was that.

* * *

  
Hastur and Ligur were sitting, eating lunch in the office cafeteria, when a lady plunked down her tray next to them, with enough force to slosh some of her gory soup over the rim of her bowl.  
   
‘Hello!’ she said charmingly, with a pointy smile. ‘You must be Hastur and Ligur.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ligur, squinting at the stranger, ‘Who’re you? What do you want?’  
Hastur elbowed him sharply under the table and gestured for him to stand up and bow.

‘Good afternoon, my lady Tanit,’ Hastur said with deference. ‘Sorry about him, he can't see too well,’ he added, jerking a thumb at Ligur.

‘Please,’ she said, ‘Don't worry about it. Have a seat. Though if you can't see too well, Ligur, you could file for re-corporation.’

He shuddered.

‘Or, more simply,’ she continued, ‘get a pair of– oh, what are they called, bless it, it's not lensils, it's–’ She snapped her fingers a couple times, trying to remember. ‘You know, topside they've got the glass bits in front of your face and there's wires– oh, never mind. I digress.’

‘What is it you wanted to talk about, my lady?’ Hastur asked cautiously as he watched her sit down.

‘Hmm? Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to talk to you about a co–worker of yours. Name of Crowley, formerly Crawly?’

‘Bastard,’ muttered Ligur, and spat on the ground.

Tanit's upper lip twitched at his table manners. ‘Bastard?’ she asked. ‘Would you care to expand on that?’

‘He's… arrogant, my lady,’ explained Hastur, ‘laid-back, as they say. He's adopted a lot of unnecessary human affectations.’

‘He wears sunglasses when it ain't even sunny out, cause he thinks it looks cool,’ Ligur elaborated.

‘Glasses!’ said Tanit. ‘ _Glasses_ , that was the word I was looking for a while earlier. Do carry on.’

‘He's been known to consort with the enemy,’ offered Ligur.

‘Aha!’ said Tanit, pulling out a tiny flip-top notebook from her jacket pocket. ‘Yes, I know about that. If I'm not mistaken, his name is Azariphel? Aziraphale? Am I saying that right? An angel. Well, anyway, tell me more about the pair.’

‘They collude,’ said Hastur.

‘An' they eat together,’ said Ligur.

‘So, fairly close, you'd say?’ Tanit asked.

The two nodded.

‘Intimate?’

‘Wotcher getting at?’ Ligur asked.

‘Oh, you know,’ she said.

Neither of the two other demons answered. She was going to have to be uncomfortably clear.

‘Are they involved with each other as a couple?'

Hastur and Ligur exchanged an uneasy look. Finally, Hastur spoke.

‘It's not my duty to speculate about the personal lives of my co-workers, but I think no, Crowley's not going out with the angel.’

‘Though not for lack of wanting to,’ Ligur mumbled.

‘That's what I thought, I just needed confirmation,’ said Tanit. ‘I was thinking we– well, I– could fix that.’

‘Fix…what?’ Hastur really didn't like where the conversation was going.

‘Set them up, somehow. Beel's away on vacation and I was mainly stealing his office for a bit since the lighting's better, but I was also tidying some files for him. You know how messy[1] my husband is. Anyway, I’ve been reading up on this Crowley fellow, and it seems like he's been pining after this angel of his for an awfully long time. It's not right to leave him like this.’

‘Um,’ asked Hastur, shifting in his seat a bit, ‘since when exactly do we care about right?’

‘Oh, but we do care about looking after our own, Hastur,’ Tanit said.

‘He's not _really_ our own, what with the way he acts. Too human.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Tanit, waving a long-clawed hand, ‘I got all that, thank you very much. “Human affectations”, as you called them, are also very useful to a field agent trying to blend in. You'd complained about his arrogance earlier too, but may I remind you that Pride is one of the seven most important values of our society? I really can’t see any reason not to assist him.’

‘He killed me with holy water!’ exclaimed Ligur.

Tanit arched an eyebrow.

‘I got better,’ he said.

Hastur cleared his throat. ‘Besides the woeful mistreatment of my partner–’

‘Oh, I didn’t know you two–’

‘Not like that. Besides having committed the temporary murder of my co-worker, may I remind you of Crowley's role in the botched apocalypse?’

Tanit sighed, rolled her eyes much too far back, and leaned forward confidentially. Hastur and Ligur could see all of her sharp teeth.

‘You know we aren’t supposed to talk about that, right?’ she whispered. The men could smell her breath. It was putrid and sea-like, like a whale carcass too far gone to resemble a whale.

Then, in a more normal tone of voice, she continued.

'I know you two got the memo. Everyone got the memo. The events that happened, whatever they were, were not an attempt to bring about Armageddon, and most of them didn’t officially happen the way you probably remember them. It would be embarrassing if they did.  I wouldn’t want anyone to get in trouble for spreading rumours about Our Lord's son turning his back on him. And it’s not like this human child had a purpose anyway. It’s just a wild oat. There wasn’t an attempted apocalypse.’

She leaned forward to whisper again, and Hastur and Ligur held their breaths.

‘And even if there had been one, I'd be pretty glad myself if it was called off, boys. And I’ll tell you why, but breathe a word, and I'll have you slowly skinned for slander. The reasons are military. Our numbers are nowhere near what they should be if we're to expect to come out victorious in a fight against Up There. Theoretically, if such a situation were to have presented itself, we would have needed all the delay we could get. Have gotten. Of course, it didn't.’

‘I, uh, I see,’ said Hastur. ‘And theoretically, if Crowley had been involved in the delaying of it, even if by accident and sheer incompetence, you would want to reward him?’

‘In a way,’ Tanit said. ‘But really, the thing is, it seems the poor boy is rather lonely.’

‘If you’re going to suggest we assign him a mission to seduce that angel he’s always hanging out with, I’ll veto that proposal.’

Lady Tanit’s face, if it could be called one, brightened.

‘That’s not what I was about to propose, but I like it! And you have absolutely no veto power over me,’ Tanit reminded him with a thin smile. 

Hastur suppressed a groan. Then, on second thought, it occurred to him that he could still make the most of it, and he grinned.

 

* * *

 

Crowley had a variety of reactions to his latest assignment. The first was to ask whether he had misunderstood. It was not a likely possibility given the clarity of the icy knowledge that they dropped into his head, but he was surprised enough by the task to ask. Once Lady Tanit confirmed that, no, there had been no mistake, Crowley’s second reaction was rage. He was shaking and had to pull the car over to the side of the road. Of course, he said nothing, but internally fumed.  How dare they?  
   
‘This is highly unorthodox,’ Crowley noted mildly, trying to find a way out.

‘WE KNOW. BUT IT’S SPRING. TIME FOR NEW THINGS.’

Well, that track wasn’t working.

‘Er, do you need anything else done?’ Crowley asked as politely as he could.

‘WHY, THAT’S VERY HELPFUL OF YOU TO OFFER, BUT THIS ASSIGNMENT IS ALL WE’VE GOT FOR YOU NOW. IF WE NEED YOU TO DO ANYTHING ELSE, WE’LL LET YOU KNOW,’ Lady Tanit answered.

‘No,’ said Crowley, taking a deep breath and hoping for the best, ‘I was wondering whether there was anything you wanted me to do _instead_ of this. Not that I don’t want to do this! But I feel there might be others with a more suitable skills profile for this than me.'

‘ARE YOU ASKING FOR A REASSIGNMENT?’ asked Lady Tanit’s voice, suddenly much less pleasant. ‘I DON’T THINK YOU’RE ASKING FOR A REASSIGNMENT, BECAUSE THAT’S RATHER UNPRECEDENTED. NOBODY ASKS FOR A REASSIGNMENT.’

‘Please?’ Crowley tried in a small voice.

‘NO.’ Tanit said simply.

Crowley opened his mouth to say something, but Tanit interrupted him.  
‘AND DON’T SAY IT WAS WORTH A SHOT, IT WASN’T.’

Crowley closed his mouth.

At home alone in his pristine white flat, he contented himself by kicking the houseplants a little. Mostly, he paced anxiously around the living room rug. Then he sat down on the couch with more bottles of wine than was necessary or good and drank himself into a stupor until he had forgotten why he was drunk. Before falling asleep, he remembered to clear the alcohol from his blood to avoid compounding anxiety with a headache the next morning. His dreams that night were strange, full of curly-haired, golden-skinned, chubby beings with bare wings that were dark blue and white like the inside of a mussel's shell. (Again.) He awoke with a horrible sense of guilt. (Again.)  
   
He spent the next couple days alone in his flat, pacing in circles all day like a hermit in the sand.

 

* * *

 

He met Aziraphale the following Saturday at the bookshop for coffee. They were sitting side by side on the dusty low couch in the backroom. It was halfway through his second cup of coffee that he realized something was wrong.

‘Is this…Aziraphale, is this decaf?’

Aziraphale shrugged meekly and placed a reassuring hand on his forearm.

‘It's just that you looked so worked up. More than usual, that is.’

‘ _Thanks_.’

‘I'm serious,’ the angel insisted, ‘are you all right? You look a bit peaky is all.’

‘I am completely fine.’

‘Are you sure? Because if something's bothering you, you can always talk abo–’  
He jerked his arm from Aziraphale's touch.

‘It might be better not to talk about it.’

‘Is it about Work?’ asked Aziraphale.

Crowley shot him a look. Of course it bloody was, it always was the main source of worry in his life.

‘Okay, I see. Is it something I can help you with?’ Aziraphale asked.

‘I don't know if– I don't think–’ Crowley took a deep breath. ‘You really wouldn't want to, anyway.’

‘Well, what is it, first of all?’

Crowley was suddenly very interested in his own cufflinks. He could feel his pulse ratchet up.

‘It's, er… It's, er, kind of complicated, you might say. Uhm. A multi-year or even century project at the very least, because of the nature of– and well, it's the sort of thing you might find unethical, and I'd doubt you'd feel comfortable giving me access to any of your co-workers’, er, personal details and whatnot, so… yeah.’  
   
Aziraphale gave him a look of utter bewilderment. ‘I'm sorry, you haven't really said anything. I don't follow at all.’

Just then, Crowley's mobile phone began to ring on the table. It was a sleek and modern Nokia. It only weighed a pound and a half. He didn't answer it. It could only be Hell, because nobody else besides Aziraphale had his number.  He looked at the phone nervously. It answered itself.

‘HELLO, CROWLEY,’ came the crisp tones of an infernal voice,[2] ‘LADY TANIT HERE. ANY UPDATES?’

‘Er, no,’ he said, ‘No, because this was only assigned to me last Wednesday. I need some time to plan.’

‘THAT’S WHY WE CALLED. WE THOUGHT YOU NEEDED TIME. WE FORGOT TO GIVE YOU A TIMEFRAME DURING OUR LAST CONTACT, WHICH IS WHY I AM CALLING NOW. YOU HAVE TWO WEEKS.’

Crowley stood up sharply and spilled his cup of frankly terrible coffee on his lap. ‘What?’ he squeaked.

‘MAYBE THE AUDIO QUALITY AIN'T THAT GREAT. TWO WEEKS, I SAID.’

‘No, there's no way– Trying to seduce some angel in two weeks is a suicide mission. I'd be killed on the spot! These things take craftsmanship, time. Give me two years,’ he begged, ‘please, at the very least.’

‘THREE WEEKS.’

‘Three weeks?’ he protested, ‘I can't do that in three weeks.’

‘THERE'S NO 'CAN'T' IN 'CANOODLE', CROWLEY,’ the voice answered gleefully. ‘YOU'LL FIGURE IT OUT. YOU'RE RESOURCEFUL. GOODBYE!’

‘Wait! Don't hang up! Please don't hang– oh.’  
   
He slumped back down on the couch with a thousand-yard stare in his eyes.

‘They want to kill me,’ he said. ‘They actually want me to get killed.’

‘It's going to be all right, dear.’ Aziraphale said soothingly. ‘I think we can figure this one out. Let's see. Your task is to seduce an angel, right?’

Crowley nodded glumly.

‘And it can be any angel, right?’

‘Yes. Any angel. They didn't specify anything beyond “an angel”.’

‘Well,’ said Aziraphale gently, trying to guide him to an easy solution ‘has it occurred to you that it could be me?’

‘Yes, of course it has!’ Crowley said, and instantly regretted the sound of it.  
‘But wouldn't Upstairs be upset? Wouldn't you, er, you know?’ Here he made a downwards twirling motion that was like a leaf falling from a tree. ‘I mean, my memories of nephil-gate may be hazy, so correct me if I'm wrong, but–’

‘You're wrong,’ Aziraphale said. ‘That was an entirely different situation. That was an abuse of angelic status to impress _mortal women_ , resulting in _offspring._  You and I are safe. We don't have that power differential or the smallest risk I'd get you pregnant.’

‘Yeah, unless w–yeah, okay. But… we're friends. It would be weird,’ Crowley countered weakly.

‘We don't have to make it weird. Besides, seduction doesn't need to imply carnality, does it? Perhaps they want you to lead me astray. All you need to do is convince them I’m so besotted I’m under your thrall. You could 'seduce' me easily.’

Those words gave Crowley a feeling he couldn't correctly place. Rather than misfile it, he threw it in the bin.[3]

‘That’s not what they meant, unfortunately’ Crowley said wearily. ‘They want a traditional seduction. I don’t know why they want me to do it. I don’t have succubus or incubus training, and– '

‘Then we could falsify a traditional seduction. They don’t need to know the details of our relationship, and we could pretend to be “going out.”’

‘We could.’

‘It wasn't that difficult, was it?’

Crowley shrugged.

‘You could start by inviting me to dinner tomorrow,’ Aziraphale said. 

‘That's nothing out of the ordinary for us,’ Crowley pointed out.

Aziraphale shrugged too.

‘No, but last time we went out to eat, I paid,’ he said

‘Sneaky bastard.’

Aziraphale took his hand. Crowley was surprised by the gesture and did not protest.

‘Fair's fair, dear.’

* * *

The problem wasn't that he didn't want to date Aziraphale. The problem was what would happen if Aziraphale found out Crowley was enjoying dating too much. Though fortunately, (or perhaps not exactly ‘fortunately’), the stress was preventing Crowley from enjoying it at all. Being interested while pretending to be uninterested and pretending to be interested on top of that was too many layers of acting. What grim irony. He never expected they would date under such unpleasant circumstances.

  
He'd weighed every single possible outcome. In some, Aziraphale found out about Crowley's affection for him and things continued as usual, with no change or acknowledgement. In some, things became awkward for a while but returned to normal quickly, in a decade or fifty years. In very few, it turned out ideally, but he slammed the brakes on these fantasies. Mental images of huddling cheek to cheek on the couch in the winter under a cosy blanket were dangerous and had to be restrained.

* * *

They had dinner at an Italian place Crowley knew. Aziraphale had suggested sushi, but Crowley had countered that spaghetti was inherently more romantic. Aziraphale had smiled fondly at him and asked him for a source, and when he was unable to provide one, asked him whether it was from that cartoon movie about the dogs.[4] 

The food was good (shrimp scampi) and the wine was delicious. Aziraphale sipped it with his eyes closed and gave a hum of delight.  
   
‘So,’ asked Crowley, ‘what's the plan of action? We've got to start planning.’

‘Don't call it a plan of action,’ Aziraphale said. ‘Let's just let things flow naturally.’

‘Okay. Okay, that works, that works. I was thinking we should take it slow as well. They'd be suspicious if it happened too fast. Good thinking. Glad we're on the same page.’  
   
‘Crowley,’ asked Aziraphale after a pause, ‘is your leg bouncing up and down under the table?’

‘Hm? Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that.’

‘No, it's okay. It wasn't bothering me, it's just that you seem ill at-ease.’

‘I'm not.’

‘What I mean is that you don't really look like you're on a date you enjoy.’

‘No? Well, that's all right. I can tell them I was pretending to be nervous to get you to lower your defences. They’re not even watching. I can tell them anything.’

‘Okay,’ Aziraphale said with a nod, ‘that wasn't what I was getting at, but it's good to know.’

‘What were you getting at, then?’

‘I meant that you might as well relax and have a good time. Right?’

Easy for him to say, Crowley thought, he's got nothing at stake.

‘I’ve just realized we don’t even need to go on dates,’ Crowley said suddenly. ‘I’m an idiot. I can just send them my reports.’

Aziraphale sipped his wine and thought about it.

‘But it would be easier to write fake reports about dates that actually happened, wouldn’t it? Just in terms of keeping the story straight.’

‘The corroborating evidence wouldn’t be faked.’

‘Evidence?’

‘Receipts and the like. Like our receipt for dinner tonight. I was only just informed of this today, but apparently every few days, I have to put the reports and evidence in a big envelope and send them off. The one benefit is that I don't have to look at the reports anymore. I hate them.’

'Too much paperwork?'  

‘They're stupid, that's all. Terrible reports. I hate them. I hate the way they sound.’

‘A lot of people hate their own writing.’ Aziraphale offered helpfully.

‘No, it's not that,’ Crowley said, ‘I'm good at it. It's just– it all sounds cold and predatory. Which, I suppose, is what they want. “Got closer to the target today. Target allowed some lingering touches on thigh. All running on schedule.” It's loathsome.’

‘You haven't touched my thigh,’ Aziraphale observed.

‘Forget that. It's not like it has to be true. I hate all of this. It feels like spy work and not in a cool way.’

Aziraphale nodded.

‘So, you’re suggesting that you’ll continue writing fake reports, but that the receipts will be real?’

‘That’s correct,’ said Crowley. ‘I can take myself out to two dinners. I could get myself two tickets to a movie or a play in the west end.’

‘Crowley, that sounds absolutely miserable. Not to mention, I’d be quite offended if you got yourself two tickets to go see a play without me.’

‘Well, do you have some sort of alternative?’ Crowley asked.

‘Hmm,’ said Aziraphale, thinking. ‘Receipts aren't terribly reliable evidence. Anyone can manufacture receipts. We could, easily, with the bookshop cashier.’

‘Yeah,’ said Crowley, too tired to remark on the fact that the angel had suggested forgery, ‘but they'll spot a fake. They've given me a card to use for project expenses.’

‘They're paying you money to go out with me?’ asked Aziraphale, amused. How anyone could find this funny, Crowley didn't know.

‘Apparently.’

‘Could I look at the card for a second?’

‘Okay,’ said Crowley, fishing it out of his wallet. ‘Why?’

‘I've had an idea. I was thinking some suggestive receipts from the shop next door to mine might satisfy them.’

‘What, Intimate Books?’

‘Yes.’

Crowley groaned.

‘Aziraphale, you are not buying sex toys with my money.’

‘Goodness, no, certainly not! I don't know the budget they've given you, and those things can get pricey. I was thinking of something cheaper, like–’

‘Stop,’ begged Crowley. ‘For h– earth’s sake, stop.’

Aziraphale stopped and gave him back his card.

‘I'm sorry.’

‘Just try not to embarrass me,’ said Crowley. 

They sat in silence for a while.  
   
‘I'm just saying we should take this slowly,’ Crowley said 

‘Good point,’ said Aziraphale. ‘It’ll make it seem more real.’

‘Real, yeah,’ said Crowley glumly.

‘It’ll feel like less of a chore if we really do spend time together, then. You shouldn’t take yourself out to two dinners, especially not when you look like you’re nervous enough to explode. The wait staff will pity you and ask too many questions.’  
‘Fair point. So we should go on real fake dates?’

‘It’s even simpler than that!’ Aziraphale explained. ‘We should spend time together like we always do. There’s nothing that we already do that couldn’t be construed as a date. All we need to do is see each other more frequently, which is something we’d both enjoy. It’s the easiest thing in the world. It doesn’t even need to be a thing. You don’t need to get worked up about it one bit.’ 

And just like that, they came to a suitable agreement about the plan, and they shook hands on it.

 

* * *

 

Crowley seemed much more himself for the rest of the dinner.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, Crowley drove Aziraphale back to his bookshop.

‘Good night, love,’ Aziraphale said. ’Thank you for dinner.’

‘You don't have to call me “love” if you don't want to,’ Crowley said, 'It's not like they're listening.'

‘Sorry.’

‘No, no, I'm not saying– look, it's not bothering me, it's just that you don't have to if you'd rather not.’

‘It's all right if you don't like it.’

‘I do like it,’ said Crowley. His brain caught up to him a moment later and he regretted opening his mouth.

‘That's good, then,’ Aziraphale said cheerily.

 

* * *

  
It seemed to Crowley that Aziraphale was pretty serious about the whole thing, absolutely heaven-bent on realism. What was that school of acting called? The ones that really tried to live the thing, you know? Fussy with a propensity to go a bit mad. He wondered if that was what Aziraphale was doing. Not going mad, just really getting into his role.

   
Well, at least somebody was enjoying this. Crowley, on the other hand, was likely to go mad.

* * *

 

It was nearly the end of the first week when Crowley received an update from his supervisors in the form of a car radio broadcast.  
   
‘HELLO, CROWLEY. LADY TANIT HERE. HOW ARE THINGS GOING, CROWLEY?’

He gulped.  
‘Fine, thanks, my lady. Yeah, the seduction's going fine. Just, uh, no need to rush it, okay? Thanks for understanding, bye!’ 

‘THIS IS NOT ABOUT THAT. OH, FOR HELL'S–’ Crowley hit the off button on the radio, but the voice continued, ‘What'd I just press? Did I press something? Why ain't it doing the voice anymore?’

‘Hastur?’

There was a brief silence.

‘Yeah, 's me. What happened is… Lady T's got a meeting and it's up to me to do her comms system till she's back.’

‘Sounds terrible. Well, how about I stop wasting your time and you just hang up?’

‘I’m not falling for your tricks, you serpent. I've got a message for you. It’s: “Why have you been neglecting your duties? Do you think this is some sort of vacation?” It’s from Tanit herself.’

‘I haven't been neglecting my duties,’ Crowley protested. ‘These things take time. I've got to make it special for him, you know. The angel is, uh, a very sentimental sort.’

‘Take your time with it,’ Hastur said, ‘you know him best and all that. Buy him some flowers.’

‘I– thank you,’ Crowley said, surprised by his concession.

‘That was sarcasm,’ Hastur sneered. 

Crowley had wanted to tell him that he was doing it wrong, that it hadn't really been sarcasm, but there was a right time for correcting a Duke of Hell, and that time was never at all.

‘This call ain't even about your silly project. It's about your regular duties. You're supposed to be doing them in addition to the project, not putting them aside to work just on the project. Cosying up to some wide-arsed feather-bag shouldn't take all the hours of the week. Do that on your own time.’

Crowley thought it was hardly fair. They could have at least told him what was expected of him.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘That sounds fair. Sorry for the misunderstanding on my part. I was confused. Is there anything else Lady Tanit wants?’

‘Yeah, she says “Take pictures when you go out.”’

‘As…evidence?’

‘No, she just thought you'd like a memento of your dates.’

So they finally did learn sarcasm after all, Crowley thought.

‘Of course. Right,’ he said.

The radio buzzed for a bit and then went silent. When he turned it on, it resumed its regular programming. That is, Crowley had missed the end of the show he was listening to and accidentally caught a bit of The Archers instead before hissing and shutting the radio off for good.

 

* * *

 

 

‘How are things going?’ asked Aziraphale as he shelved a pair of novels onto a row of atlases[5]. 

‘Fine,’ snapped Crowley.

Aziraphale noticed his tone, brushed the dust off his hands on the front of his trousers, and pulled up a chair.

‘What seems to be the problem?’

Crowley collapsed on Aziraphale’s couch with a frustrated groan.

‘You seem stressed,’ Aziraphale said.

‘It’s the stress,’ Crowley muttered, crossing his arms and jamming his head between his knees.

‘Tea?’

‘Sure. Sugar, no milk, extra vodka,’ he answered. ‘Quite a lot of vodka.’

Aziraphale returned with the desired hot beverage and handed it to him. Crowley downed it. It was not real tea, it something herbal. Hibiscus, probably. It tasted summery and stung pleasantly in his throat.  
  
‘You’re worried about the mission.’ Aziraphale observed.

‘Yes, but please, Aziraphale, not now. I don’t want to talk about it or think about it.’

‘You don’t have to worry about the mission. I thought we had agreed to simplify it.’

‘Well, I mean, I do have to worry about it, and about the looming deadline, but that’s what the alcohol is for.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Aziraphale said resolutely.

‘What do you mean?’ Crowley asked fuzzily.

‘I mean,’ Aziraphale said, taking his shaky hands in his own, ‘you just leave it all in my hands and I’ll sort out the mission for you, and you can relax.’  
  
Crowley gave him a confused look, as if he had not heard well. For a second, the roles of tempter and tempted were blurred, and the room would have spun for Crowley if not for the warm and firm presence of his friend’s hands anchoring him. It was a good offer. It sounded impossible.  
  
‘How do you plan to do that?’

‘You’ll see,’ Aziraphale said. ‘Remember all the times I’ve covered for you? Remember Byzantium?’

‘Those poor people,’ Crowley muttered.

‘Well, er, yes, I suppose…’ Aziraphale said. ‘But I did do your job well.’

Crowley had to admit he was right.

‘Besides,’ continued Aziraphale, ‘I owe you a favour of this magnitude.’

Crowley furrowed his brow.

‘What for?’ 

‘Something or another at some point, probably. In any case, we’re friends. What I’m saying is you can leave this to me.’

‘How, angel?’ Crowley asked. ‘How?’

‘You’ll see. Trust me. Do you trust me?’

‘Well, yeah,’ he answered. He trusted no one else.

‘So it’s all settled!’ Aziraphale said cheerily, giving him a fraternal pat on the shoulder.  
  
Crowley sighed, not entirely convinced. 

‘And what do I do in the meantime?’

‘Why, relax, of course. Yes. It’ll work better if you don’t keep the project on your mind.’

Crowley grimaced.

‘You know I can’t do any of that.’

‘Yes you can,’ Aziraphale said. ‘Let me show you how.’  
  
Aziraphale laid a hand on his head and said some words silently. Like that, the anxiety faded. It was like a tremendous weight had been lifted off his back. Crowley felt a bit lightheaded.  
  
‘Uh,’ he said intelligently. ‘’M gonna hafta lie down.’

Aziraphale nodded approvingly. He said something, but Crowley didn’t quite catch it. He was already dozing off on the couch. It would be the first good sleep he had in ages.  
  
He hadn’t forgotten the mission. It was more like he didn’t exactly remember.

 

* * *

 

 

Crowley awoke later and wiped drool off his cheek and flipped over the cushion to hide the spot. It was already quite dark out, he realised, and he’d best be getting home. Aziraphale was reading something at the counter, and Crowley could probably leave without bothering him in the slightest.  
  
‘Do you need a walk home?’ Aziraphale offered as Crowley tried to slip past him.  
  
The thing about it was that he had driven there, and that he didn’t need a walk home, which was only some twenty minutes away on foot. But he wanted a walk home, which was the damning thing.  
  
‘Sure,’ he answered, not missing a beat. He’d just have to get his car later.  
  
He couldn’t remember what they’d talked about on the way there. He couldn’t even remember how he’d reacted when Aziraphale bid him good night with a warm hug, since he didn’t quite register what had happened until he was halfway up the stairs. Well.  
  
The next morning, he awoke, and for some reason, there was nothing on his mind. The air was fresh and there were birds out and he could smell the grass and there was nothing on his mind.

 

[1] _Messy_ didn’t even begin to cover the caked centuries of grime, but understatements were Tanit’s style.

[2] They all sounded somewhat the same on Hell’s communication system.

[3] It missed the bin and landed a few inches away, under the desk. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

[4] It was.

[5] It must be noted that these were not new stock. Every now and then, Aziraphale would take some books from the shelves at random, hide them in a cardboard banker's box, and re-shelve them in a different place whenever he remembered to do so. It kept the customers on their toes and prevented them from finding anything they were looking for.


End file.
